


Rolling Scones

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Rolling Scones Bakery, Scones not Scones, dubious baking knowledge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 05:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19055860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: Harry lives a quiet life as the baker at Rolling Scones. Maybe he was a little lonely, but he doesn’t need a boyfriend. And definitely not Draco Malfoy.The store's logo that they shamelessly stole from the Muggle band.





	Rolling Scones

**Author's Note:**

> For my beautiful Adafrog. Your prompt was brilliant. “Fluff…fade to black…magical AU.” I really hope you like it. ♥ ♥ ♥

“Ginevra.”

“Malfoy.”

Malfoy raised one eyebrow. “Is that any way to speak to a potential customer?”

Ginny huffed and dropped her hands to the glass pastry case. She leaned forward and laid on her friendliest, sucrose-sweet greeting. “Welcome to The Rolling Scones. How may I help you?”

Hidden in the kitchen, Harry watched Malfoy almost-sneer, the same one that appeared regularly in his dreams even after two years. Some of the dreams left him confused and breathless, but that was a different story.

“Better. Much better.” Malfoy reached out to pat Ginny’s head, then re-thinking his decision, he pulled his hand back. “It pains me to admit this, but I understand your cakes are outstanding.”

Harry preened each time a customer complimented their products.

Slatted shutters divided his kitchen half-wall from the customers. Although the shutters were a bugger to clean _(there’s fucking flour everywhere,_ Ginny said every day at closing), they allowed Harry to see and hear the customers. And they were easier to hide behind than a spell that could waver or be dropped.

Ginny eked out a sound, which Harry translated as her trying not to slap Malfoy. “Yes. Yes, they are.”

“Excellent. Now. I’d like to place an order.” Malfoy smiled, and it was brilliant like the first sun rays to break through rain clouds.

Harry shook his head to clear his thoughts. The smile was _okay._

“I’ll need two dozen cupcakes, vanilla with cinnamon chips,” Malfoy began, ticking requirements off on his fingers. “Cinnamon. Not chocolate. You might wish to write this down.”

Ginny scrabbled for her order pad and a pen which were somewhere under a pile of receipts and dirty paper napkins next to the till.

“White buttercream icing, but instead of frosting them individually, frost them so that they take the appearance of a rectangle cake.”

Ginny scribbled as fast as she could, and Harry rolled his eyes at Malfoy’s tone, which implied that they were going to screw up the order no matter how explicit his directions were. 

“And across the top, one letter per cupcake, I want it to say—Shall I write it down for you?”

Ginny growled, literally _growled,_ and Malfoy backed up a step.

“Use red icing for the lettering. It should say _Happy 2nd_ \--use the number two on one cupcake, and the n and the d on separate cupcakes-- _Birthday Scorpius.”_ He spelled out Scorpius, which Harry grudgingly thought was fair since it _was_ unusual.

Ginny read his order back, before making him sign the form and pay. Malfoy paid, and as he tucked his wallet back into his pocket, he said, “They’re for his birthday party at his day nursery tomorrow. I’ll pick them up around this time.”

Before he opened the door to leave, Malfoy turned back to Ginny. “I don’t understand the name of your shop. Rolling Scones? It makes no sense.”

“Not scones, Malfoy. Scones. It’s named after the Muggle band—”

He shook his head and walked out.

Ginny watched him leave and said to the empty bakery, “You can stop hiding now.”

Harry slid open the shutters. “Better not let Luna see you staring at his arse like that.”

Ginny laughed, a light, joyous melody that Harry still loved. “We’re married, not dead. Besides, that was a masterpiece, poured into those trousers.”

Harry nodded. “Doesn’t really matter. He’s got a two-year-old. Probably happily married living in some posh Mayfair flat with a country home in France to match the one in Kent.”

Ginny laid her hand against Harry’s chest, over the store’s logo—lips and tongue shamelessly pilfered from the Muggle band. “First, he didn’t come all the way to Diagon Alley for cupcakes, so he probably lives here. Second, it’s 2019, Harry. It’s possible to be a dad and not married. Or to be a dad and be gay—and looking for a boyfriend. Which—” She tilted his head so she could look into his eyes “—you’re never going to find if you keep hiding back there.”

Harry blushed, and Ginny kissed his cheek before mercifully letting him go. “It’s no matter to me. I’m happy to have everyone think I’m the genius behind Rolling Scones.”

Harry saw a customer walking up the pavement toward their door and closed the shutters. He wasn’t hiding—per se. He was doing what he loved without all the media attention and people gawking and pointing. And the Floo line from his flat directly to the bakery kitchen was just convenience. For when it was too rainy. Or too hot. Too humid. Too cold.

Okay, so what was wrong with wanting a quiet life? And it wasn’t _that_ boring. He had Ginny and Luna. Ron and Hermione. Baby Rose was on the way, and he’d be the best godfather ever.

Harry slid the trays of croissants into the oven and set the timer; he moved by muscle memory, his mind still on Ginny’s words. A date might be okay. Not just as a third wheel, watching telly with Ginny and Luna or playing board games with Ron and Hermione. But just him and a bloke who’d want to sit down for a bite to eat and get to know each other.

Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes were fine-tuning a new dating device they called WIZRD (We Invented Zany Rapid Dating)—although sometimes George called it SPEL’D (Some People Eventually Love Dating). As a ~~guinea pig~~ “beta tester,” Harry could see other users’ photos and biographies and could match with guys he found interesting.

But the service was tetchy and didn’t work half the time. Plus—the few times he’d used it his date made a crowd-gathering scene. And using a glamour and a fake name seemed like lying.

The timer dinged and Harry checked the first batch of croissants. Like he said, he had his friends and Wizard telly. Maybe he would adopt a dog; he could take it for walks and ease back into society.

Harry slipped the croissants onto cooling racks, his mind still on Malfoy. He _did_ look good—good enough that Harry almost thought he might possibly consider maybe opening the shutters the next afternoon when Malfoy picked up his cupcakes.

 

~*~

At exactly 3:59 the next afternoon, Malfoy returned.

“Perfect,” Malfoy said as Ginny charmed the plastic cover closed over twenty-four cupcakes in a rectangle, iced as one, with _Happy 2nd birthday Scorpius_ piped on in red. “The reviews said I wouldn’t be disappointed. I was skeptical, but I can admit I was wrong.“

Behind the shutters, Harry snickered at the backhanded compliment at the same time Ginny flipped Malfoy off.

“I’ll let that go because I am so pleased,“ Malfoy nodded toward Ginny’s fingers. Harry laughed again and Malfoy moved his head as if he could see through the slats. “Who’s back there?“

Harry froze in place. He was seen in public so infrequently that most people thought he was a hermit or had died or had moved out of London to live—well, fill in the blank. He’d read every possible theory. His favorite was either as a beach bum in Tahiti or had become a feral thing in the woods at Hogwarts.

“No one—I mean—uh—just—uh. The baker.” 

“I assumed you were the—who _is_ the baker, then?“

Harry stomach plummeted then skidded to a stop at the thought that Malfoy would insist on meeting the baker. And he didn’t want to talk to anyone, and certainly not Malfoy. Even if he were being suspiciously kind and ~~cute~~ nice. Nice. He meant nice. 

To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy said, “Never mind. I can’t be late. The party starts at half four.“ He paid and was out the door holding tightly onto the box.

“In the two years we’ve been open, no one has ever asked who the baker is,” Ginny said, wringing her hands. “I’m sorry I froze, Harry. I didn’t know what to say.”

“Don’t worry. He’ll probably never be back,” Harry said, the scent of Malfoy’s cologne still light in the air.

 

~*~

Malfoy stopped in every few days with no set schedule—a sandwich on a fresh, hot croissant at lunch, a cookie or two before the shop closed for something sweet “before bed.”

Each time he would eye the shutters as if he might glimpse the person behind them.

“How’s the Baker?” he asked each time; Ginny wouldn’t offer more than a strangled _Fine._

Harry heard him, almost waited for it each day. Malfoy’s tone was softer than it had been at Hogwarts, rounded and curious where it once had been sharp and curt. Like someone Harry might chat up at the pub, buy a pint for and enjoy watching as he spoke.

But, how could he? He’d spent two years hiding. He couldn’t just _appear_ in the middle of Diagon Alley, or at the bookstore. Maybe he could duck into Eyelops, buy some treats for post owls. Did they sell crups or even dogs?

With a sigh of resignation, Harry returned to his baking.

_It was enough._

But the pang of loneliness in Harry’s heart told him it really wasn’t. Not anymore.

Ginny opened the shutters and handed him a mug of strong, black coffee. “Look, mate. No offense, but you need to get out. You’re like some old grandpa sitting in his flat waiting to die.” She held up her hand to stop Harry from interrupting. “I mean baby steps, like, I don’t know. Going to the pub with a group of us one night for a little. Or having your groceries delivered to your flat instead of mine.”

Harry sighed, his shoulders falling. “You _do_ know no offense doesn’t actually excuse the offense, right?”

“I know you. You want to ask him out, but you don’t go out. So either you ask him out or you ask him in. Which I know scares the shit out of you, but you’re not who you were two years ago. You’ve matured, and you know how to handle stress.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but she was right. “Baking dozens of croissants isn’t the same as going out in public.”

“Sure it is.” Ginny took a warm chocolate chip cookie that Harry handed her. “Imagine everyone is a hot croissant, and you’re butter. Everyone will be better for being with you, and you’ll be part of something better. Okay, okay,” she laughed when Harry snorted. “The example fell apart, and now I just want a croissant.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Harry acknowledged. “This coffee is shit, by the way. Who lets you make it?”

“Aha! I know you know I’m right when you start changing the subject.” Ginny danced away to clean the few tables, singing a song only she knew.

The alarm chimed, and Harry closed the shutters to return to Madam Malkin’s petit fours for her annual Open House that began at 5. He’d been right on schedule until Ginny remembered the extra half-dozen trays Madam Malkin had requested the day before. There was just enough time to complete the order on time and close up shop.

What he needed was a partner who was less bossy and had a better memory. And could make a decent cup of coffee.

 

~*~

“Done!” With moments to spare, Harry piped the last rosette on the last petit four. Harry reached for the trays, but Ginny stopped him.

“Can I deliver them and head home?” she asked, checking the clock. “I’m supposed to meet Luna at 5 at the Burrow for dinner, and you know how my parents are when they’re with her alone for too long…”

“Go. Go. I’ll close up.” Harry held the door open for Ginny, who carried one tray and had nine more floating behind her. “Have fun. Go save your wife.”

Disinfect the tables, then sweep and mop the floors. Empty the till. It was easy enough to do alone, and he’d still be home in time to see his show on the telly.

The late afternoon sun filtered through the lettering on the windows, and Harry stepped over the shadow words as he finished with the tables and sweeping. He tucked the broom into the kitchen’s utility closet and filled the mop bucket, careful not to add too much cleaner like he usually did.

Harry backed through the swinging door, pulling the rolling mop bucket behind him.

“It _is_ you!”

Harry jumped, his heart pounding from shock, and his foot knocked into the bucket. The mop in his hand clattered to the floor. Soapy water sloshed over his trainers and his jeans, but all he saw was Draco Malfoy. 

“Sorry I scared you; it’s just—I knew it had to be you. No one believed Weasley was the baker; she’s all thumbs. It was either you or the hot dragon brother.”

Harry’s words fled—spilled out like the mop water on the floor that was soaking his shoes.

“Hi,” he finally managed, but still didn’t move.

“He speaks!” Malfoy laughed and woke the tiny fluff of fur in his arms. “Sorry about bringing him in here. But when I saw you—” He kissed the poodle’s head.

Malfoy. Being soft. Holding a puppy. Kissing a puppy. Being nice to Harry.

_Hot dragon brother??_

“Scorpius and I have walked past here so many times, the Aurors must think we’re going to rob you.”

Harry looked around for Malfoy’s son. “Is he still at his day nursery?” he asked, instead of _you look good_ or _let’s go live on the beach._

Malfoy frowned. “Who?”

“Your son. Who just turned 2? I mean, isn’t it late for a kid to still be at nursery?”

“Are you criticizing my parenting, Potter? The first thing we’ve said in years, and you’re all over me?”

Malfoy turned with a huff toward the door, but Harry grabbed his elbow. “I didn’t mean—I’m sure you’re a good dad. A great dad. I mean, he’s lucky to have you. If you bring him in next time, I’ll give him cookies. I’m—sorry.”

He rushed through the words, trying to get them out before Malfoy left. Harry released Malfoy’s elbow and waited.

“Potter, why are we fighting over what kind of father I am? I don’t even have a child—”

“Yes. You do. He just turned two a week ago.” Harry waved his hands toward the display case. “Remember? Two dozen cupcakes, white icing—"

“I think I would know,” Malfoy huffed. “It’s just me and Scorpius. He’s like my child.” Malfoy buried his face in dog’s fur.

“You bought birthday cupcakes for your dog.”

“Well, when you say it like that it sounds mad—” Malfoy held Scorpius out to Harry.

Harry wiped his wet hands on his apron and gently took the dog into his arms. Scorpius wiggled up to Harry’s shoulder and, probably finding stray icing or flour, licked Harry’s neck.

Malfoy stared before looking away at the rest of the shop.

“I’ve been thinking of getting a dog,” Harry said. He brushed his cheek over Scorpius’ fur and loved the silky feel.

“It’s brilliant. London seems a bit smaller when I take him on walks. People are friendlier, and I don’t feel so alone.”

“Would you want to get coffee or something and I could ask you questions about having a dog?” Harry asked in one breath before he could talk himself out of it.

Malfoy smiled and pushed his fringe out of his eyes. “I’d love that, but it’s his dinner time. You could come with? I can make something for us. I’m not much of a cook but I’m alright.”

Harry vanished the mop and bucket, opting for a floor cleaning spell instead. He tucked the cash drawer into their office safe. On his way back, he stopped at the display case and boxed up cookies and a few cupcakes. “I’ll put in a few extra for Scorpius.”

“Merlin, no! Dogs can’t eat that.”

“But the cupcakes—”

“—Were for the staff. _Obviously.”_ Malfoy rolled his eyes and peeled Scorpius off Harry’s chest. “Don’t you know anything?” Before Harry could respond that he knew plenty of things, Malfoy added, “It’s a good thing you asked me to teach you about dogs _before_ you got one; otherwise, you’d feed it all kinds of pastries—”

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

“Make me, Potter,” Malfoy said with a smirk.

Maybe he would do just that after dinner and dessert.


End file.
